His home was the trackless wilds, where he was true to his calling--a foe to the redman.
Wonderful to relate his long, black hair never adorned the walls of an Indian's lodge, where a warrior might point with grim pride and say: "No more does the Deathwind blow over the hills and vales." We could tell of how his keen eye once again saw Wingenund over the sights of his fatal rifle, and how he was once again a prisoner in the camp of that lifelong foe, but that's another story, which, perhaps, we may tell some day.
To-day the beautiful city of Wheeling rises on the banks of the Ohio, where the yells of the Indians once blanched the cheeks of the pioneers.

The broad, winding river rolls on as of yore; it alone remains unchanged.

What were Indians and pioneers, forts and cities to it?
Eons of time before human beings lived it flowed slowly toward the sea, and ages after men and their works are dust, it will roll on placidly with its eternal scheme of nature.
Upon the island still stand noble beeches, oaks, and chestnuts--trees that long ago have covered up their bullet-scars, but they could tell, had they the power to speak, many a wild thrilling tale.

Beautiful parks and stately mansions grace the island; and polished equipages roll over the ground that once knew naught save the soft tread of the deer and the moccasin.
McColloch's Rock still juts boldly out over the river as deep and rugged as when the brave Major leaped to everlasting fame.

Wetzel's Cave, so named to this day, remains on the side of the bluff overlooking the creek.